September 14, 2008
Exodus 14:19-31
Our Old Testament story for this morning is one of the biggies. God parting the sea just in time to deliver Israel out of the hands of the Egyptians.
But it isn’t a simple, rosy exodus story by any stretch of the imagination. The Hebrews had lived in Egypt for hundreds of years, much of it in slavery. They were oppressed and forced into hard labor by ruthless rulers who thought nothing of beating them. The midwives who delivered the Hebrew babies were ordered to throw all the boys into the Nile River. Imagine the fear the mothers and fathers must have lived in! These suffering people made it through a series of horrible plagues. And even when the moment ultimately came, after all of those years of slavery and pain, when Moses finally led them out of Egypt, their journey was still not an easy one. God didn’t lead them directly into a new land free from oppressors, but had them wandering in the wilderness until Pharoah and his army came after them again. Again, they had to experience the angst of their oppressors coming after them, fearful that there was no escape. And then, at long last, comes our story for this morning.
It’s an incredible drama, this exodus story. The pillar of cloud leading Israel through the wilderness and lighting up the night. Moses stretching his hand over the sea. God working with tangible things like wind and water to drive back the sea and make a safe pathway for the people.
But even after this amazing Red Sea crossing, Israel’s struggles were far from over. Even after escaping the Egyptian army, they continued to wander in the wilderness without a homeland for forty more years. Only two people who had made the escape from Egypt survived to eventually enter the Promised Land.
But despite it all – despite the history of hardship and slavery and toil, despite the difficulty of their journey, despite the painful delay in finally reaching a place of relative stability – despite it all, this story has become part of the identity of the people of God.
The Jewish celebration of Passover includes a re-telling of this story every year. And it is part of our identity as well as baptized Christians. During every baptism, a prayer of thanksgiving is said over the water that reminds us that “through water God led the children of Israel out of their bondage in Egypt into the land of promise.”
Like so many of the stories of our faith, this one isn’t part of our identity because it’s a warm and fuzzy, feel-good story. It’s a part of who we are because it’s a story of God with us. And even though it isn’t likely to happen quite so dramatically in our own lives, when we look closely and creatively, it actually starts to look pretty familiar.
Scene 1: The people were suffering in slavery in Egypt and cried out, and we are told that “their cry for help rose up to God.” God heard their cries and God hears ours.
This has been an unusually rough week for me. One of the straws that broke the camel’s back came on Thursday. Dylan just started preschool for the first time, and it’s been a pretty traumatic experience for him. And for me. Thursday morning – day 3 – had been full of tantrums even before I mentioned the word “school”. And we had one of those hideous drop offs, where he was clinging so strongly to me that his teacher physically had to peel him off me while I ran from the room in tears. My rational side – the one that tells me that the transition has to happen at some point and in a few days he will be perfectly jolly there and he will be best buddies with these little people – that saner side was nowhere to be found. And I just had to sit in my car and take deep breaths. It was one of those all-too-frequent human moments of feeling completely overwhelmed and helpless and there was nothing to do but cry out to God. Annie Lamott, who is one of my favorite Christian writers, writes that “‘Help’ is a prayer that is always answered.” And although I don’t always understand the method or the timing of the answer, just like the Israelites, I do find that somehow to be true.
Scene 2: The people of Egypt were running in terror from their captors and thinking all was lost, and God parted the sea, creating for them a safe path in the midst of danger.
I’ve had my own small versions of that, and probably you have too. When I was in law school, I was driving back on 95 to Atlanta after Christmas break in my little Toyota Tercel and this big snowstorm was just starting to hit the southeast. The skies were a dense grey and it was hard to see through the flurries. And suddenly a car started merging into my lane from an entrance on my left. We weren’t both going to fit, and the other driver didn’t seem to see me, so I slammed on my brakes so we wouldn’t collide. And my car did a 360 on the icy road and careened right for an 18 wheeler truck that was coming up from behind. There was nothing I could do but hunker down and hold on. And then my car went under the side of the truck and my windshield smashed in. But just before the top of my car was sheared off (along with my head), the truck’s rear set of wheels bounced me back out again. What I remember most vividly about the accident, though, was how I felt. I was certain, absolutely certain, that I was going to be smashed to smithereens by that truck. And yet this sense of peace came over me, this certainty, not that I would be safe (I actually felt quite sure I was going to die) but that it was ok – that it wasn’t the end. It was my own experience of dry land in the midst of waves.
Scene 3: After the Red Sea crossing, the people of Israel were left wandering in the desert, sometimes desperate for food and water, sometimes wishing they were back in slavery in Egypt where at least then they knew what to expect. God didn’t provide them with an easy or predictable path. But even though their road was complicated, and often times painful, it ultimately led somewhere incredible.
Reading through some of the wonderful work of the History Project committee recently made me wonder if this parish might have experienced something a little like that after the fire that destroyed the first church building. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to see those smoldering remains and know that you’d never worship in that same familiar place again. But then, look at us now, worshiping in a whole new place, next door to a much larger parish hall, in the beginning stages of a new phase of changes and renovations in this place. Who would have guessed where that road would lead three decades ago?
But my favorite part of the Exodus story, the part that gives me the most hope, I think – Scene 4, if you will - is that wonderful pillar of fire and cloud. It strikes me as the perfect metaphor for our God who is sometimes before us leading us, and who sometimes has our back, but who is always there accompanying us. For us, as for Israel, there is bound to be wandering and anxiety, wilderness and waves, but for us as for them, God is in the midst of our journey.
We too have a pillar of strength and love that is powerful enough to light up the darkness. A God who isn’t content to live impassively in a heavenly domain, but who chose instead to come down personally and live among us. This is our story. Amen.
Elizabeth Rees